出三藏記集 6.8

6.8

Now, ānāpāna is the Great Vehicle of all Buddhas, by which they ferry across the drifting flow of sentient beings. Its practice has six [stages], with which to govern the six passions. The passions are internal and external: the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, body, and mind are called internal; sights, sounds, scents, tastes, tangible softness, and deviant thoughts are called external. The sūtra says: "The twelve matters of all oceans" means that the receptive deviant conduct of the internal and external six passions is like the ocean receiving rivers, or a starving man dreaming of food—there is simply no satisfaction. The overflowing and agitation of the mind leaves nothing minute that is not pervaded; indistinct and fleeting, it exits and enters without intermission. Looking for it, it has no form; listening for it, it has no sound. Facing it, it has no front; following it, it has no rear. Deep, subtle, minute, and wondrous, in form it has not a single hair; [even] the voices of Brahmā, ṛṣis, and sages cannot illuminate it. It quietly plants seeds here and undergoes transformation and birth there; not being visible to ordinary folk, it is called the aggregate. It is as if in murky darkness a farmer sows millet and mustard: with an open hand he covers the seeds, multiplying into myriad billions; bystanders do not see their forms, nor does the farmer know their number. One decays below, and ten thousand sprout above. Within the snap of a finger, the mind turns nine hundred and sixty times; in one day and one night, there are one billion three hundred million thoughts, each thought possessing a single body, yet the mind is unaware of itself, just like that farmer. For this reason, the practitioner of stillness fastens his mind to the breath, counting from one to ten. If the count of ten is without error, the mind becomes settled in it. In a minor concentration for three days, or in a major concentration for seven days, still and without other thoughts, tranquil as if dead—this is called the first dhyāna. Dhyāna is discarding: discarding the one billion three hundred million defiled thoughts. Having already obtained the concentration of counting, one turns one's thought to following, eliminating eight and maintaining only two thoughts; the mind becomes settled in following, just as it was in counting. Defilement and turbidity are extinguished, and the mind gradually becomes pure; this is called the second dhyāna. Further eliminating one of them, one focuses attention on the tip of the nose; this is called stopping. Having attained the practice of stopping, the three poisons, four runnings, five aggregates, and six darknesses—all defilements are extinguished. Brightly the mind shines, surpassing a luminous moon pearl. Licentiousness and depravity soil the mind just as a mirror lying in mud is soiled by filth and dirt. Turned upward to reflect heaven or turned downward to face the earth, the intelligent, wise, holy, and discerning overlook and illuminate myriad lands, yet great as heaven and earth may be, not a single greatness can be seen. Why is this so? It is because of its dirt and turbidity; all defilements soil the mind even more than that mirror. If one obtains a fine master to scrape, polish, and grind it, sweeping away thin dust and slight obscurations without remainder, and holds it up to reflect, hair and facial complexion—nothing subtle will escape inspection. With dirt gone and brightness preserved, it makes it so. When passions overflow and the mind is scattered, among ten thousand thoughts not one is recognized. It is like racing one's mind and giving free rein to listening in a marketplace, collecting myriad sounds widely; yet upon returning to quiet contemplation, one does not recognize the words of a single person. When the heart runs wild and the mind is scattered, turbidity clouds its hearing. If from a solitary place one's mind contemplates in stillness, with an intention free from deviant desires, tilting the ear and quietly listening, then out of ten thousand sentences not a single word is lost—this is what tranquil mind and clear thought bring about. Practicing stillness and stopping the mind, suspending it at the tip of the nose: this is called the third dhyāna. Turning back to contemplate the body, from head to foot repeatedly inspecting its minutiae, the internal form is filthy and exposed, horrifying with hairs standing on end, as if seeing pus and snivel. Hereupon fully illuminating heaven, earth, people, and things, their flourishing is like decay, with nothing existing that does not perish. Believing in the Buddha and the Three Jewels, all darknesses become bright; this is called the fourth dhyāna. Gathering the mind and turning back thoughts, all aggregates are extinguished; this is called turning back. Filthy desires are still and exhausted, and the mind is without conceptualization; this is called purification. When one attains the practice of ānāpāna, his mind is instantly illuminated. Wherever he casts his gaze, nothing hidden is unseen: things of countless kalpas past or yet to come, the experiences of people and things in the present realms, all the Dharma teachings of the World-Honoured One therein, and the disciples reciting and practicing—nowhere is too distant to be seen, no sound is unheard. Indistinct and fleeting, existing and perishing at his own free will, greatly he pervades the eight extremes, minutely he threads a fine hair. He governs heaven and earth, preserves life and lifespan, with fierce spiritual virtue crushes heavenly armies, shakes the trichiliocosm, and moves various realms. The eight incomprehensible wonders are beyond the measure of Brahmā; their spiritual virtue is boundless, originating from the six practices. When the World-Honoured One first wished to preach this sūtra, the great chiliocosm shook and trembled, and humans and gods changed colour. For three days of ānāpāna, none could question him. Thereupon the World-Honoured One transformed into two bodies: one called "What is it?" and one the Honoured Lord; they expounded this meaning, and it was revealed. Great beings and superior men, the six pairs and twelve ranks—none did not put it into practice. There was a bodhisattva named An Qing, courtesy name Shigao, the son of the principal queen of the king of Anxi. He yielded the kingdom to his uncle, sped away to escape his homeland, and, soaring like a bird, made progress until he finally settled in the capital. As a man, he was erudite and broadly knowledgeable, grasping the spiritual patterns, the waxing and waning of the seven planets, the fortune and misfortune of winds and weather, mountain collapses and earthquakes, the techniques of acupuncture and curing parasites, diagnosing illness by observing complexion, and comprehending every cry and call of birds and beasts. Cherishing the great benevolence of heaven and earth and pitying the ignorant darkness of the common folk, he first cleared their ears and then opened their eyes, wishing their sight and hearing to be clear. Gradually he expounded the six perfections of the correct and true, and translated the secret marvels of ānāpāna. Scholars arose like dust, and none did not cast aside defiled conduct to take up the virtue of pure integrity. I was born in the final traces, only just able to carry firewood. My deceased father and mother have passed away, and my three masters have perished. Looking up to the clouds and sun, I grieve that I have none to question and receive instruction from; looking back and reflecting on this, tears stream down. My past fortune has not yet vanished, and I chanced to meet Han Lin of Nanyang, Pi Ye of Yingchuan, and Chen Hui of Kuaiji. These three worthy men were earnest and devoted in their faith in the Way, holding to virtue grandly and correctly, advancing diligently, and aspiring to the Way untiringly. I followed them and made inquiries; like compasses matching and carpenter's squares aligning, our understanding was without divergence. Chen Hui annotated the meanings, while I assisted in weighing and selecting them. Not being transmitted from a master, I dared not take liberties on my own. The words are mostly vulgar and clumsy, not exhausting the Buddha's intent. May the bright and discerning worthies examine it together. If there are excrescences or errors in the meaning, may the sagely edit and correct them, jointly making its spiritual harmony manifest.